


Through the mist, into the light

by DarkBloodyCrow



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 13 Days for 13 Dwarves, F/M, Feels, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Not Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-26 02:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2635346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkBloodyCrow/pseuds/DarkBloodyCrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirteen were the dwarves of Thorin's company, and thirteen were the ones to battle amongst others of their kin, elves and men against an army of orcs, wargs, and goblins. All had much to lose, but all followed their King under the Mountain "one last time". Through the mist and through sacrifice, light shall shine and grant the well deserved pace. Meet the end of the journey to retake Erebor through the vision of the thirteen dwarves, and a tiny, burglar-y, loyal and kind of traitor-y hobbit.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kili

**Author's Note:**

> Wellp, here goes nothing. This is my attempt at the "13 days for 13 dwarves", in which I'll be trying to show BoFA through the sight of all our dear company. Romance is implied and would appear aplenty further on, but it's not the main aspect of the story so don't expect it to turn fluffy on that sense xd  
> Do expect an overdose of feels, family-feels, company-feels and a general Thorin's-company-feels-abuse, if I am able to achieve the effect I'm wishing to do, that is. Anyways, enjoy!  
> Side note: everything would be usually written between 1 am - 3 am, which means there would be typos and loads of grammatical mistakes, and as it is not beta-ed, I am to blame for all of them. Will try to revise the thing once it's finished.

The first thing he remembered feeling was a deathly pain that grew over all his upper body, numbing his senses to the point where his brain was unable to concentrate on anything else but the pure, aching sense of bleeding and dying. Where was he? What was happening? Nothing made much sense. His eyes could not see anything at all and the sounds that reached his ears were nothing but a cacophony of shouts, cries and the sound of metal colliding with metal.

Then it clicked.

  
The battle. He was a midst of the fighting, probably seriously wounded and doing far too little to be of any use to the rest of his fellow dwarves, which was a shame for someone like him, one of Durin's direct descendants, nephew of the King under the Mountain and the following heir to the throne’s brother. Fili used to call him “idiot” and “airhead” quite frequently, all in a big-brother-mockery kind of voice intending no real offence, but even if those adjectives were always meant as a joke, there was nothing Kili hated more than feeling just that; an idiot. And what other adjective could be used on him if he couldn't muster enough concentration to even understand in which position was he remaining? What else was he if not an airhead if he couldn't find where the fucking ground was laying?

  
The brunette tried opening his eyes then, only to notice that they were already open and that he was staring at something blurry and undefined. Was he lying face down on the ground? Strange, had it been that the case, his face should be freezing cold, what with it being buried in the white snow. That is, if his wounds had not stolen all his feeling ability yet. Though, as he could feel his backside wet and quite cold, his guess was that the ground lied behind him, and the blurry grayish-white thing his eyes were trying to focus on was the morning’s sky. Such disposition meant he was laid down, sprawled on the snow covered battlefield, and his brother and uncle, and pretty much the whole company would be proud of his deductive skills.

  
It was the thought of Thorin’s scowl what brought the memory of why he was lying on the cold ground, badly wounded to top it all, instead of battling with the rest of the company and besides Fili. Were he 30 or 40 years younger, he’d probably be childish enough to blame his current situation on his uncle. And in a way, facing Azog the Defiler on his own after hours of fighting, several serious wounds and not maintaining a safe battling stance was reason enough to blame the older dwarf for the wounds Kili had received, because what else was Kili supposed to do when the Pale Orc was about to finish his dear uncle if not jumping between the mace and Thorin and take the blow?

  
He was impulsive, he knew, he was told so many times by the fellow members of Thorin’s company, and so many more by his own brother and uncle. However, Dis deserved a mention of honor, of course. She was the one to scold him time and time again whenever he wandered too far from Ered Luin, in search of his own adventures full of glorious mountain halls and terrible foes to fight against, being them frequently those traitorous elves his uncle used to describe with not a few foul words. Though if he sometimes dreamed about rescuing a fair looking she elf from the hands of orcs, no one had to know about it (except for Fili, of course, there wasn’t a real reason why he should hide anything from him). After all, if there were so many rumors about the beauty of elves and how it was the greatest glory of Middle Earth, some of it must have been true.

  
It was usually his adventurous and wanderer spirit what got him carried away too long and too far for his mother’s liking, and whenever he returned late in the night, with his clothes slightly raged after running through the forest and practicing his aim with the bow, Dis would have him hear an hour long rant about how irresponsible he was, to get grounded for at least a month after that. The brunette never resented her though. He knew she worried about him, and that she had already lost too many dear kin to withstand more loss. The boy had not had the privilege of coming to know his uncle Frerin, or his father, or his grandfather, or even the great Thror, last King under the Mountain. He grew up to the tales of their greatness, but he never had to suffer through the years of sorrow and mourning that both his mother and uncle had to, so an age came in which his adventurous escapades ceased and he settled down to listen to Dis’ advice and work besides his brother and uncle to maintain their humble household.

  
However, his easy going life lasted for as long as Thorin’s impetuous and royal spirit was maintained silenced and restricted, which was not much after his coming of age. After coming to know his uncle’s intentions on retaking Erebor, there was little that could stop him from forgetting about his promise to let go from his fantasies and desire for adventure, and not Thorin, not Fili or even Dis, were able to make him stay. His mother’s teary pleas almost did the trick, but as heart-broken as he was left after an hours long melodramatic argument, he left the dwarowdam’s side with the sole promise of his soon return, engraved with ancient runes on a stone from the remnants of old Erebor that he took with him.

  
And would he break that promise too? He surely could feel his own blood run down his sides and color the ground below him. Were his guts sprawled on the ground too, exposed for wargs to come and have them for their afternoon meal? Azog’s blow had been strong enough to send him flying a few meters away from where Thorin had been kneeling in an almost defeat-like posture, so a broken promise was most certainly a possibility. At least, in the bleak of his death, he could brag about his deductive skills being improved. Yay for that.

  
The thought of dying young had never really bothered him before, especially during the beginning of their travel to Erebor, when his mind was completely fogged with the thought of showing the rest that having nothing but stubble as a beard did not make him a kid. Dying in the battlefield was actually one of the honors he thought would be worth achieving, and if it was in order to retake their long lost homeland, no one should really reproach him about it. But then Bilbo Baggins and his “home and family is important” speech appeared in the picture to make him question everything again as if turning back to those days in which he was a young teenager worried about his mother, and Tauriel with her “we aren’t all that different” charming flirting that confirmed him that his uncle’s elf-hate was not passed down on him, and the company’s family-like warmth, and Fili bonding even more with him if possible, and… he just didn’t know anymore. Didn’t know who he was supposed to be, or what was he supposed to do, what were his real aims as a royal of Erebor, as one of Thorin’s heirs, as one of the company, as Dis’ son. The only thing he knew for certain was that he did not want to die there, cold in a dirty ground with his insides exposed for predators to come down on him when his last breath had already been taken, or maybe sooner than that (what kind of fight would he be able to put up with, anyways?).

  
He hadn’t even bid farewell to his friends, hadn’t had the opportunity to ask for his uncle’s forgiveness for throwing his life away in order to carelessly save his (everyone knew that such an act, although honorable in close relationships, was a dishonor for the saved warrior on the battlefield, and a tragedy for the one who will have to live afterwards), or even try to sort things out with their dear burglar, who he had ended up considering as close family and betrayed in the end by casting him away for trying to sort things out when Thorin was unable to do so by his own. Bilbo would have certainly done a great job as a consort to their warrior King Thorin in the years of peace. If only they both could have gotten over their bickering and notice what the rest of the company had figured out way before them. A shame it is, really, when a dwarf meets their One and does not recognize them immediately.

  
But all that was meaningless now, when Kili could only lie on the cold ground, lamenting all that was left undone, unsaid, while waiting for the Great Halls to claim his soul. Maybe it was meant as mockery, or maybe it was Mahal’s last gift before biding his last goodbye to his life on Middle Earth, but the young dwarf started gaining back his sensibility and focus, being able then to see close to clearly with his eyes and move slightly his arms. He extended his left one only to notice that he had been grasping something in his hand with all the strength he had left, probably for quite a long time seeing as his knuckles had turned quite white. Opening slowly his palm, he was able to see his blood stained rune-marked promise stone, and it was then that everything turned to be too damn much. One after another, tears started to roll down his face aplenty, blurring once again his sight. A sob escaped his mouth, and he almost could not recognize the ragged voice that was his own while he closed his palm once again, much harder this time.

 

 

“Mom-,” Kili whispered, voice tear-stained, “I’m sorry, couldn’t keep it–”

 

His laments were interrupted by a hand wrapping around his white-knuckled one, and his sight was turned to look a bit higher over his shoulder in his lying position. The sight that was granted to him was enough to break completely his heart, and when Fili smiled back at him while failing miserably at holding down his own stream of tears, his own knuckles turning white from holding Kili’s hand in his own, Kili felt that a chunk of his dwarfish stone-sculpted soul broke apart in thousand pieces and his sobbing became unstoppable.

 

  
“It’s okay, Kee, I’m here-, right here.” Fili said while trying to crept his way towards his brother using only one arm as his other one seemed broken and bleeding as much as his half-missing left leg was. “Easy, Kee, don’t be-,” the blond dwarf stopped briefly in his slithering towards his brother, hissing loudly in pain while trying not to cry too hard, “such a crybaby-, what would uncle say-, if he saw you-, eh, Kee?”

  
The younger dwarf would have liked to answer to his big brother’s constant teasing, as he always did, but at the moment he could not find the will to do so, and his sobbing only allowed him to breathe when it was of utmost importance, which rendered him unresponsive to social interactions.

  
Oh, how good had been life by his brother’s side. They sure had their own hard times, their fights and quarrels, and Fili sure as hell did the best he could to accomplish his task as the older brother; to mock and ridicule his younger one as much as he could. But they were each other’s partner in mischief, each other’s best friend and company for secrets. They knew everything about the other, shared their deeds and miseries and were always more than happy and willing to protect one another even if it meant suffering of any sort for themselves. Fili had been the older brother, the caring and the protector. Heck, he had renounced to get to the Lonely Mountain with the rest of the company if that meant leaving his brother behind. Had he been enough to repay such loyalty? Had his humor, support and spirit been enough to thank Fili for all that he had given him in life? How many times had he thanked him, made him know how much he valued his help, support and sole presence by his side? Not enough. Never enough.

 

“Fee-,” Kili tried to say, his voice but a whisper almost audible to the blond dwarf’s ears.

 

“Hush, Kee-,” Fili’s face, full of blood strains, contorned into a painful grimace while he finished his journey towards his brothers side, and wrapped his good arm around Kili’s middle in a last attempt at a big spoon, but even that failed. The younger one couldn’t move at all, and the older one’s force was already failing him in order to maintain himself spread on his side in order to embrace his brother. “Don’t waste your breath-, you’re not in good shape.”

 

Caring until the last moment, until the last breath would have left him. How much did he have to pay Mahal for granting him such an incredibly big brother?

 

  
“Fee-, thank you.” Kili tried to say before his eyelids became too heavy to keep them from closing. “I’m grateful-, that you were-, are, my big brother. I hope to see you-, again, in the Great Halls.”

  
The last thing he was able to see before his eyelids gave up was Fili starting to sob just as much as he had before it became too painful to maintain. And before finally passing out, the brunette was granted with a curt, sorrowful answer from his brother.

 

“Soon, Kee. Won’t keep you waiting.”


	2. Oin

The improvised tents reserved for the healers to treat those who had fallen in battle could only be called that; improvised. Mats were more like ragged pieces of leather and some light fur put together and laid randomly on the ground, most of them dirty with the ground’s dirt and even wet by the small patches of snow that had reminded there because no one had the time to clean with accuracy the land reserved for the tents. The hours previous to the battle had been a mess and no one, except for the few who knew their place was not on the battleground, had the time to worry about preparing for something else than just throwing their lives into the war, uncertain if they would come back and only caring about protecting their _newly retaken homeland_. Not to mention that the whole War-preparation thing had taken barley a few days of their time, which was much too little to get anything well prepared for something as large scaled as the battle that was taking place. After all, five armies are not made up of few participants, which was precisely the reason why Oin had spent the last four hours or so running around from mat to mat, doing as much as he was able to in the conditions he had to work.

The dwarf was actually grateful that some of the elf healers had accepted aiding the dwarfish and men armies too instead of only taking care of their kin, though he’d rather not admit it too loudly, in case it got to their heads and their already notoriously graceful egos swelled even more. But he knew that, in what was referred to healing and health in general, no one could beat them, and as much as dwarves loved to be mighty warriors and battle over glorious, historically important battles, their medical skills and knowledge lacked much level for their own good, and it might have been one of the many reasons why their population decreased with every passing century.

Oin was not proud of such a fact. He was a warrior because it was expected of every dwarf to be proficient on the battleground, regardless of any prior conditions, and it was an overly important aspect for dwarfish nobility, even more for those born out of the great Erebor. Yet all those reasons served for little more than to anger Oin and make him waste his precious time on sparring and maintaining his physique capable for battle instead of using it to become a better healer, especially during the last century he had been rendered half deaf after standing too close to Smaug’s landing roar. No, being known as a race ready to fight till death, carelessly forgetting about their own wellbeing and the continuation of their kin, was not something Oin considered as a compliment, even though that made him look like an outcast among his own people. He knew to value the company of just a few close dwarves instead of trying to comply with the expectations of a multitude that did not like him the way Mahal had built him.

Fortunately, his brother had been the same way about war and the risks of it. However, and although understanding and respecting his brother’s opinion, Gloin had always been the type to mold his external appearance in order to fit well with the ways of the current society’s requirements. It was not for any other reason why he had achieved to be proficient as a banker during the peaceful years in Erebor and a great merchant during the exile, being this way able to not only maintain his wife and little son, but his older brother and Thorin’s expedition too. It was in this way that both brothers remained different, because while Gloin was a _social butterfly_ , capable of blabbering for hours in order to get what he needed, Oin was more about isolating himself from the _stupidity that surrounded him_ , and sink deep down in his advanced medicine books.

It came as a surprise, even to Oin himself, when the dwarf found his One and that it was a reciprocate feeling, especially when comparing the both of them. Gagrira was a lovely dwarowdam, with auburn hair collected in one simple-looking braid, and her beard styled in small, little braids that were grouped in the end to shape a sole big one. Her eyes burned with an intense hazel color that Oin liked to compare with the passion of her spiritual soul. Because yes, the most impressive thing about the pair was the great disparity in the crafts that both had chosen. After all, science and religion did not usually work well together, but that was the magic that united that peculiar marriage.

They had met a long while after being established in Ered Luin, and not under the best of conditions, so to speak. Generally, when a dwarf insulted the craft of another one, it would only be met with a violent fight or a formal duel, depending on the social standard to which the dwarves belonged. And if it came to middle-aged dwarowdams feeling insulted by the words of their male counterparts, pray to Mahal that their mercy was appealable if you wished to come alive from a fight with them. Fortunately for Oin, who had never been much interested in being awfully good at battling, the slightly younger priest found the old dwarf’s words to be simply funny to hear and the dwarf itself interesting to meet. From there on, the pair started hanging around more and more, even if Oin did not wish to admit that he had spent not only one odd evening waiting for the dwarowdam to finish her day of work so that both of them could walk around the valley side of Ered Luin.

It was Gagrira’s sweet charm what captured old Oin’s mind and took him away from his books, surprised him by never getting offended by the snarky remarks of the old sod about religion and faith and filling Oin’s old and tired mind with whispers of hope and light.

“Faith is just bullshit that idiots and useless dwarves use to excuse their own mistakes and incapability to do anything else but fight.”

“Dear Oin,” the gentle dwarowdam said, in her usual melodic tone tuned at the perfect height specially for Oin to hear her out even if he was to forget his little trumpet, “I couldn’t agree more with you. Those who pray to Mahal for his enlightenment and words while remaining idle, expecting for their problems to be solved by themselves, are _useless idiots_ , as you like to qualify them.” Gagrira made a brief pause to smile at his husband because this was the typical point in which their frequent arguments turned to show that the dwarowdam was wining once again. “But that is not what having faith means. Faith is nothing but a source for one to tune in with themselves and gather the strength needed to go on. It is when one keeps on fighting after being defeated, praying to our creator Mahal to look after them, in order to gather their strength, what having faith means. You have faith in your friends and loved ones because you trust in them, and pry to Mahal he guards them because that is how you end up realizing that they are capable of doing so by themselves. Don’t you agree?”

He, of course, never ended up agreeing with her, at least not audibly, because his pride was far too dwarfish to give in. But, did he believe in her words?

The tent’s entrance was parted then, and three quite familiar dwarves to Oin entered, aiding one another in order to walk as straight as it was possible for them. Ori, to one of Dori’s side was trying to cope with as much of his brother’s weight while forcing his right leg as little as possible, probably because of the pain of a broken bone, but aside from that, he’s wellbeing did not seem quite endangered. Dori and Gloin, on the other side, looked quite “dwarven-warrior-after-a-battle”. Oin’s brother, holding Dori on the other side, had blood strains all over his forehead and down the right side of his face, gushing out from a bruise on the upper side of his head, probably a mace wound. Mahal might have built dwarves’ head strong, but an orc’s blow on the head with their heavy weapons was never a good omen. Yet Dori was not far from his younger brother’s looks, and if anything, his well state seemed more alarming. Two arrows had pierced his abdomen, his arms were full of cuts, some deep and others just superficial, and his knuckles were all bruised and broken, probably because the dwarf had lost his weapon while battling and had no better judgment of decision other than to keep it up with a fist fight. The result he had obtained was that he almost could not stand by himself and had to rely on the help of his youngest brother and his friend.

“Lie him down on this mat. Gloin, sit down here.” Oin commanded in his professional-like voice, trying to hide the little panic attack that he was suffering from seeing what his friends and brother had to endure out there, and for what reason? Stupid dwarfish pride. Damn it and damn whatever ambiguous being had made them this way.

Ori, restraining his tears as much as he could so as not to disturb the morbid silence of the tent, carried Dori to the improvised mat and placed him as gently as his limbs allowed him, and rapidly stood up again awaiting whatever orders he could take form the healer of the company in order to save his brother.

The dwarf in question reached down to examine Dori’s wounds, trying to see fast what was the priority that he had to take care of immediately.

“Ori, how are you –?”

“Yes, I can walk, and will do so fast. What can I bring you?” The young one said so quickly, with a tear-restrained voice, that the healer almost did not understand it all. It was of course not recommended for someone with a broken leg to walk around, especially at a fast pace, amidst a battleground, but Oin had come to know the young dwarf very well after almost a year of traveling with the company, and he knew for sure that there was little he could do to convince him not to do something he had set his mind to. Even if slightly stupid, that was a characteristic that Oin appreciated in Ori, and that somehow reminded him of her dear wife, awaiting his return in Ered Luin, surely praying Mahal for his protection.

“Bring some hot, clean water and a pair of scissors or a knife. You can probably find some in the tent next to this one.”

Ori went, as promised, fast after the tasks that the healer had given him. Oin turned then to Gloin to inspects his injury, but he was immediately stopped by an arm on his shoulder.

“I am fine, take care of Dori, he is not well.”

“Your head is split open. What part of that is fine to you?”

“I _am_ feeling fine, Oin, and don’t have planned going to the Great–”

“Idiots that know nothing about medicine or health should just shut up and obey a professional’s orders. Can you not see that I’m worried he–”

And suddenly, Gloin stretched his right arm and brought together his forehead with his brother’s, looking Oin directly into the eye and instructing him as he had done so many times in the past, in a wordless plea, to breath.

“Brother, relax.” Gloin said with an eased voice but a worried connotation in his sight. “Everything’s alright. We’ll be alright, but we need you in your witty, genius condition. Breath.”

And after a few seconds, Oin felt his pulse coming back to its normal rate, and his anxiousness fly away. Out of the two brothers, it was always Gloin the socially capable, so it was his turn to show his own craft’s ability.

Ori came back not long after that, limping harder than before and so was instructed to sit down next to Gloin and wait for someone to attend them. The order was met with some fighting, but soon enough two elves appeared to calm him down, and while one treated the wound on Gloin’s head, the other one started working with the company’s healer to save Dori’s life.

“They say Thorin has run to face the Pale Orc some while ago.” Gloin started speaking out, and had it not been for the knowledge that his brother had been seriously hit on the head, he’d be surprised that the dwarf decided speaking so openly in the presence of elves, and showing his real, worried and caring self with no care at all to whoever was around. The wound in his head was probably serious enough to get the sturdy Gloin quite dizzy, which was not a good sign. “Fili and Kili were beside him. I’m worried Oin, those lads act too recklessly in battle when triggered, and Thorin was already acting recklessly before the battle had started.”

Ori’s weeping became slightly audible for a moment, but the young boy silenced himself as fast as he could, and cried his eyes out against his mittens, muffing slightly his sobs. Gloin, as if not noticing it, kept on going.

“What if Thorin gets killed… Oin, what if we won’t see them again?”

An auburn mane turned around, and Gegrira’s face appeared in the back of his mind, smiling candidly while whispering something to his dear husband.

“Then we shall have faith in them.”

The room fell silent for a few seconds before the read head erupted in a loud laugh that surely had reached till the other side of Middle Earth.

“Faith? Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?”

Standing up to clean his bloodied hands, Oin poked his brother in the ribs slightly to silence his boisterous laughing, and turned back to attend Dori.

Did he believe in her words? He didn’t know.

What mattered was that Ori had ceased crying, although his worry was still visible in his young face, and that Gloin had stopped raving so openly, and that was enough for the moment. At least for now.


	3. Dwalin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's taken me a bit too long to update (life keeps geting in the way), but I'm not leaving this unfinished. So, wellp, if you were intrigued by what was told so far, keep a look on it because it would be updating (supposedly) every two days.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!
> 
> (Oh, and yes, there's some Dwalin/Nori in here. If you're against the ship, you've been warned!)

He remembers that, ever since he was a dwarfling, Thorin had been like his shadow. Wherever he went, Dwalin was able to find Erebor’s young heir’s presence in close immediacy. Their first meeting had not been a spectacular one, and if someone had told him then that they would both develop a friendship akin to the strongest of brotherhoods, he would have probably laughed his ass off. After all, his first impression of Thrain’s first born was more of a disappointment rather than a good memory; not as tall as himself, not quite heavily build, and a beard that was not far from just being stubble. And when it came to personal traits, the dwarf was always stoic-looking, silent and his face always carrying a scowl, which, overall, made any kind of interaction with the young one just too difficult, and yet, there he was following Dwalin wherever the slightly older dwarf went. To say that Thorin’s behavior was annoying when it came to Dwalin, was a bit of an understatement.

With the passing of years, the youngest son of Fundin would find out that his own height and build was not a dwarfish standard from which to judge the rest of their kin, and that an undeveloped beard combined with a sour-looking-face was the most common trait that represented Durin’s direct descendants. On regards to this, his opinion on the dwarf changed slightly, but not enough so as to change his general impresion on Thorin; the young one still seemed to stalk him without showing any kind of attempt at speaking up or finally saying something to Dwalin, and shyness was not a trait a dwarf should be proud of.

It was not after some more years, when he saw the two Durin brothers playing pranks on the awfully busy adults that his opinion on the dwarf changed completely. Not for the best, though. Before he could try to reprimand the two royals for their reckless attitude, young Dis appeared form thin air and rushed to both his brothers with that typical Durin’s facial expression that brought the promise of a dangerous storm with it. After being scolded by his younger sister, Thorin seemed to notice Dwalin’s presence once again, and grew stiff while looking away, as if he had not seen him at all. It bothered the older dwarf to the extent in which he found himself unable to stop himself from approaching the young royal and let him know all about his opinion.

Only with Dis’ laughter did the mood lighten after Dwalin’s rattle, and when the young dwarowdam explained, to her oldest brother’s embarrassment, that Erebor’s last heir had been in awe with Dwalin’s stoic attitude and honorable approach to the royal family to the point of admiration, Dwalin could not keep himself from huffing a slight laughter. From that day, the youngest son of Fundin considered Thorin as the best fit from their generation to be, one day, Erebor’s ruler.

Little did he know that it would be Smaug’s desolation and the Battle of Azaanulbizar the decisive moments in which the young warrior would choose to follow his best friend to the end of the world if needed be. Seeing him loose so much every time, and still being able to keep on as the leader of his fellow dwarves, made him realize that young Thorin was not the best fit for Erebor’s highest hierarchy. No. He was the only one with the right to it.

When Frerin fell on the battleground, when Thrain went missing after the end of Azanulbizar, when sorrow seemed to be eating up the entirety of Thorin’s world, and their homeland seemed with every passing day more and more distant, with each misery that claimed their position in the Durin’s line, Dwalin’s resolution to protect his king with his own life grew stronger.

And there he stood, amidst orcs, wargs and goblins, almost unable to tell where his kin was anymore, how many had fallen and how many still struggled with life. The warrior was able to maintain himself close to Durin’s last direct descendants during most part of the beginning of the battle, but now that hours had made their way into the lasting of the war, he was having serious difficulties to find them within his eye-range. Sometimes he saw the golden mace of hair that was Fili’s, covered with small patches of blood here and there, drifting too far apart and his heart skipped a beat or two. How could he call himself Thorin’s protector if he was unable to protect him during battle? How could he give his life for his king if he was not even close to him when peril crawled towards the line of Durin?

He was a disappointment.

There were so many aspects of himself that he had hated during his whole life, be it his enormous and not-very-dwarfish-like height, his not typical built, his gruff behavior or the way he kept isolating himself from the rest of his kin without even knowing how or why, that if he had not taken shelter in feeling proud of his loyalty towards Thorin, who admired him despite all his flaws, Mahal knows what would have been of him, but the dwarf sure as hell would not have lived for so many centuries.

“Stop daydreaming, you stone-head!”

And only then he realizes he had been standing still for the Iluvatar knows how much, staring ahead at Fili’s and Kili’s backs that kept on distancing form where he was, and trying to find Thorin’s figure in the distance, safe and sound. Instead, in his eyesight comes a redhead with a star-like hairdo, somewhere like a head lower than himself, and blocks the attack of a warg’s bite by plunking one of his blades on the side of the beast’s neck, killing it instantly while all the blood gushes out and stains Nori’s already dirty hands.

“Hey,” the redhead said in such a disrespectful tone that had it been anyone else, Dwalin would not have doubted in kicking his ass regardless of them both being on the same side against the orcs, “if you’re going to dream about our nights together now, I’m keeping you with none of it after the battle.”

He had promised himself that there would be no greater priority in his life other than to ensure that Throin’s quest was completed with him alive, even if that meant that his life would be taken in exchange for it. A One never entered the equation of his life before. Considering how he never was regarded as _attractive_ by dwarfish standards, Dwalin had supposed that it was not something Mahal had predicted for him in this life. That is why he had submerged himself deeply in the craft of his choice, and thus Durin’s line was his highest priority. Until the quest to retake Erebor began.

In truth, it all started quite sooner than that, while chasing the redhead through the narrowest streets of Ered Luin, but never quite catching him when there was proof of his theft. Too quick with his feet and to slithery with his fingers, Nori was like one of the numerous shadows that crept through the city, and not even the most respected guard, youngest son of Fundin, was able to catch him on his duty. Their relationship evolved from there with a special hatred form Dwalin’s side, though the redhead’s opinion had never been clear to the taller dwarf before Thorin had announced his intetion’s of retaking Erebor. From the guard’s perspective, Nori’s attitude only denoted mockery and lack of respect, but it did not take long for the middle Ri brother to show him otherwise.

It even started politely, with the shorter dwarf approaching a grumpy Dwalin, angry with Thorin’s decision to take Nori –a criminal– with them, and telling him that he would like to set things right between them before their journey began, as his differences had only grown into a relationship of opposition because of the hardships they both had to live after Smaug. The royal guard did not buy it so plainly, but he didn’t see anything wrong with trying to have a decent relationship so as to ensure the quest’s sucess.

Oh, how wrong had Dwalin been at accepting anything from Nori, when he knew that the dwarf was a slick thief and his words were always like the finest of poisons; inoffensive looking, but deadly. The dwarf had achieved to lower Dwalin’s guard without him even realizing so, and even making him believe that the thief had no greater interest in him other than the fact that he was the dwarf that would chase after him if he was to do something that would put Thorin’s quest on peril. But, once again, he was soon proven wrong.

In fact, he should have noticed it earlier, especially being of a nobility class. Disregarding someone’s courting intentions and not answering to them without even a direct denial was something that no member of nobility could allow themselves to do, and it was something no one should suffer anyways. But Dwalin’s obsession with his craft and with the fact that there was no possibility for him to find a One blinded him to Nori’s obvious affections. In some way, Nori probably became simply fed up with waiting for Dwalin to give any kind of answer to his intentions and decided to follow o with his interest, plain as that. The night they spent at Beaorn’s was the one the guard came to know that the thief did not simply carry blades and other pointy objects hidden in the many folds his clothes had, but that his hair was braided specially the way it was in order to hid many other objects of interest, like the substances he poured in Dwalin’s jar of mead.

He would have liked to lie and say he did not remember anything from that night, or that what he remembers was so dreadful he’d wish to forget about it, but he was simply unable to do so. Nori had charmed him with not just his slickness and agility in bed, but with his whole soul. He had been able to break through the guard’s hard shell with so little words, that Dwalin was left defenseless and at the redhead’s mercy with just a few hours of them being together. After all, it was not every day he found a new light to his life. Yes, with his craft and dedication to the line of Durin he had found himself a reason to feel secure and alive, even if full of dislikable traits, but Nori had changed something in him, within the span of what he believes was just a night, but that had probably been moths of being together. The guard had never expected to accept himself as he was, not to speak of coming to like those parts of him that he had always been told that were ugly and not attractive. Maybe it was that what finding your One felt like; to know that you were perfect just the way Mahal had brought you to life.

A hard tug to his left hand made him stumble forward into the arms of little Nori, and to his right he felt the metal-touch of a big mace failing to hit its victim, barely scratching his forearm. In a feline-like movement, the redhead turned away from Dwalin’s accidental embrace while still holding his arm and turning around the official guard, pierced through the lower part of the orc’s head and dragged the dagger down, opening a big wound that had the orc tumbling down in a pool of his own blood, throat wide open. The sight of the dark blood was one of the most disgusting Dwalin could remember ever seeing, but the short redhead did not even flinch when he had jumped in front of him and blocked a dangerous blow to save his life or acting agile when he himself was unable to do so. Loyalty had always been a trait that the guard appreciated in everyone, and that was something that Nori had aplenty, at least for the select few.

Then, all of a sudden while the tall dwarf was still slightly baffled in his adoration of the younger one, Nori turned to look at him, all bloody and tired looking, with his eyes shouting a battle cry while at the same time showing a soft spot that only Dwalin had the privilege to know how to caatch.

“You never listen to me.”

That was the only warning Dwalin was given before the shorter one grabbed his beard with his right arm and pulled him down into a fierce kiss. It was sloppy and rushed, and ended far too soon for either delving into the feeling of it or to tasting it deeply, but Nori had the ability to show far too much of his emotions in little gestures if he found need in it and felt comfortable with whom he had decided to share it. However, regardless of how he’d loved to mock the shorter one for his _cute_ attitude, the blood that had spilled onto Nori’s mouth when the dwarf used his shorter height as an advantage in order to pierce through the orc’s throat, had ended in his own mouth too and there was little he could do to resist pulling a disgusted look in his face.

“Yeah, try lying and say you didn’t like it.” Nori pulled his slick grin, awfully pleased with himself. The dwarf had the gall to tease him, a noble with whom he still did not have an official courting, amidst a battleground, as if they were still in those dirty cabins of Lake Town, happily unaware of what was still to come in their future. But merry things are never kept for long when misery knocks on the door.

Just when Dwalin was about to answer, an arrow fell from out of nowhere, and pierced Nori straight through his left lower back. The guard had never heard the sorter dwarf scream before (except when they hid from the rest of the company in those few moments of intimacy) but his cry, even among all those that were already surrounding them, was one that Dwalin would remember in his nightmares for a very long time.

As if noticing the situation, foes came upon them in hoards, and it was a long battle in which Nori tried to keep on as active and agile as his wounds were allowing him to. Fortunately, the movement of the waves of kin and foe saw fit to change their presence and reinforcements came soon enough to aid them, allowing the redhead to finally break his stance for a while. However, pausing to breath cleaned the adrenaline of his body fast enough for the drain from the battle to hit Nori at the speed of light and send the dwarf falling to the floor when his legs gave out. Dwalin was by his side in an instant and the shorter dwarf fell flat into his embrace without even being able to protest, as he usually did with everything that Dwalin did too _cheese-ly_.

“Nori!” The tall dwarf said with worry clearly in his voice and his eyes pleading for the Valaar’s mercy. “Nori, hold on, I’ll carry you to the hospital tents.”

“Leave me.” Was the court answer that Dwalin was granted combined with a face that could no longer hide the pain Nori was trying to repress. The guard’s immediate answer was a full set of disappointment, rage and the feeling of betrayal. Generally speaking, he couldn’t believe that Nori would think that Dwalin, son of Fundin, would be able to leave his One to die there on the battleground for whatever reason the dwarf had considered appropriate.

“Thorin’s still close enough. I’ll have someone else fetch me till the tents.” The redhead said with a knowing smile in his face, obviously realizing what was rushing through Dwalin’s head, and had he been completely conscious, he would of course mocked him about it to no end. But blood loss fogged the mind of even the strongest dwarf, and after signaling to a young Man (working for the tents by bringing the wounded to a safe place), the dwarf tried to stand up by his own, but older one was having none of it.

“Oh, for Mahal’s–,” Nori started saying, with more strength than Dwalin thought the shorter dwarf could, or should, really muster, “put me down Dwalin, I can walk by myself.”

The tall dwarf carried Nori to the man, and before passing the redhead to him, lowered his face and gave his star-headed a chaste peck.

“Do not die before I can even start courting you properly, Nori.”

“I should be the one saying that, Dwalin, son of Fundin, _Thorin’s noble guard_.”

And with those short words they parted. Only then did the warrior notice how simply had his life priorities changed in the span of a few months. When had he started doubting that Thorin’s life came before anyone else’s? When did he start feeling he’d scarify his life not only for Thorin, but for Nori too? And when was it possible for him to believe that sometimes he felt bitter when considering losing his life in order to save Thorin because he’d no longer see Nori’s bright and teasing smile, not hear his brother fussing over his gruff manners, not share any more companionship with the rest of Thorin’s men, not see the world’s little miracles like their burglar had proven to be?

His thinking trail was cut short the instant he saw both Kili and Fili lying on the ground, immobile and covered in blood. His actions were rushed and there was no real way for him to know how he was able to summon the strength to act as cool as he did after seeing those two kids, raised almost as if his own, lying on the cold snow covered ground and the Valaar claiming their souls. Dwalin came close to both of them and tested their pulse. Nervousness made it impossible for him to notice anything plausible, and annoyed, the dwarf took both youngsters in his arms and started carrying them towards the tents, only to be stopped short in shock by the sight in front of him.

After all, seeing as his longest kept promise was being broken right in front of his eyes was nothing short of life-changing.


End file.
